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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630436">might be something</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardating/pseuds/stardating'>stardating</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Bigotry &amp; Prejudice, British History, Gaelic Language, Irish Language, Irish Steve Rogers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:41:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardating/pseuds/stardating</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mingling with the upper class was not something one just did. Good thing Steve had no intention of just ‘mingling’. Not if he had anything to say about it.</p><p>
  <b>Smol Steve Appreciation Bingo 2020: Regency</b>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>POTS (18+) Smol Steve Appreciation Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>might be something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I adore all of the tropes, prompts, and ideas that the MCU Stony Discord server comes up with. There are so many good ideas on there and the enthusiasm everyone has for writing is amazing! So encouraging. I honestly could not resist writing a Regency Smol Steve story. Many thanks to everyone on there. I love putting history into fanfics. Enjoy!</p><p>
  <i>“…and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>— Price &amp; Prejudice, Jane Austin</i>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve knew that his mother would box his ears for the behavior he would soon be partaking in. She taught him better manners than what he would soon be displaying—she taught him many, many things so he would not have to suffer the way she and her generation had. He may still be poor, practically in poverty, and he might not have a drop of blue blood in him, but at least he knew how to speak proper English and he could read, write, and calculate.</p><p>That he still muttered in Gaeilge under his breath was no one’s business but his own.</p><p>He was proud to be Irish, even if it was apparently a smear against his entire being, and they could denounce him until their faces turned blue, but he—</p><p>Steve stopped in front of a terraced house. The door was painted black and framed by two columns. He recalled the differences between Italian and Greek columns. Unlike the house’s neighbors, these were definitely of Tuscan design. He shook his head and steeled himself even as his throat burned and his lungs struggled to work properly. He could do this. He had not marched up all the way from St. Giles to Mayfair for the fun of it. He did not avoid pickpockets, multiple propositions, and the suspicious eyes of coppers just because he had some fancy whim.</p><p>A few people, proper lords and ladies really, stared at him openly as he stood in his working clothes and boldly knocked on the front door of a grand, rich house. Was it any wonder? He had soot and dust on his shoes. His pants were fraying slightly at the hems. He probably was going to leave footprints on the steps, which someone else would have to clean again. If only there was a patch of grass he could have wiped his shoes on or some sort of mat but—</p><p>He would worry about that later.</p><p>He was sweating and ready to collapse from the effort it took to get here, and people would surely be whispering about this over their fancy teas, but he <em>would have words</em>.</p><p>He would <em>not </em>go to the back of the house through the servant’s quarters like some dirty little secret. He had a reason for being a visitor and visitors came through the front door.</p><p>Steve raised his hand and used the large brass knocker.</p><p>An older gentleman dressed in a fine suit answered the door after a moment, but Steve knew that he was not the lord of the house or even close to it.</p><p>“Ah, Master Rogers,” Jarvis said pleasantly in a fine, upper crust accent. “Please, do come in. Master Stark has been expecting you.”</p><p>“<em>Go ribh</em>—I mean, thank you,” Steve stammered, horribly nervous now.</p><p>To—no, Master Stark—was expecting him? Expecting him?</p><p>He could feel a new flush going up his cheeks and down his neck. Just what he needed.</p><p>Jarvis allowed him inside and only smiled when the front door was closed once more. That was how he operated: absolutely professional, the picture of the ideal servant, but only to those whom he knew would judge him if he revealed himself to be so much more than a mere butler.</p><p>“To be frank, Master Rogers, I am most pleased to see you again.”</p><p>“Steve,” he murmured, feeling embarrassed. After what happened some months ago, he was surprised to hear such words from him. “I remember asking you to call me that.”</p><p>Jarvis smiled wider. “Of course, right this way.”</p><p>Steve followed him through the city manor home that belonged to Sir Anthony Stark, the something odd Lord of one Place or other. He was obscenely rich, had connections with every other rich person in the kingdom, and probably abroad as well. No one could quite calculate his worth, but oh, was there plenty of gossip about parties, balls, drinking, and some crazier ideas that didn’t seem to fit: inventions, a falling out with his father, something in Italy—</p><p>As they walked, his stomach started tying itself in knots. Surrounded by tasteful paintings, the latest wallpapers, and other interior designs of the day, Steve felt horribly out of place. Everything seemed to have some sort of Greek or Roman inspiration: marble busts, mosaic tiles, dark woods and brass fixtures, and many floral motifs. Everything was elegant and expensive. If not for the light colors of the walls and tiled floors, the house would feel claustrophobic, as there were no windows the further they went in.</p><p>This place was nothing like the country estate where he originally met Tony—back when he thought Tony was another member of the working class like him. Back when he thought they were on equal grounds and didn’t have things like social class in between them. Bitterly, he thought of how the country estate at least had more room to move around and larger windows to allow in sunlight and fresh air with views of the gardens and forests surrounding the house.</p><p>God, he missed that house.</p><p>But his work there was only temporary, only when they needed extra hands during the summer to help with scything the fields or sawing down parts of the surrounding copse forest. Yes, hands were needed during the autumn, maybe even more so to help with harvests and repairing walls or pathways through the more formal gardens but … but …</p><p>Then Jarvis led him to a room that had two large, double doors. There was a floral motif of inlaid gold and brass, as there were on other doors, but this design was clearly over the top.</p><p>Or it was in Steve’s opinions, but he preferred the ideas that were coming out of Norfolk than the popular ‘neoclassicism’ that was gaining more popularity. It was just a bunch of ‘enlightened’ rich boys trying to recreate the Renaissance in his opinion.</p><p>“I shall bring tea by in about an hour,” Jarvis said, interrupting his conflicting thoughts. “He should be feeling hungry by then.”</p><p>“W-What?” Steve exclaimed as Jarvis started to leave.</p><p>A second later, he was standing by himself. Staring at the huge doors.</p><p>He felt like they were going to open of their own accord and a lion would come to shred him to pieces. His initial fury and anger were now spent. The angry, biting words he had died before they even made it to his throat. He was going to denounce Tony and everything he stood for: privileged, upper-class idiots who were blind to the pain and suffering most of the population experienced every day, eras of oppression and unfair rule, strict societal standards that prevented so many people from leading the lives with the freedoms they should! He was going to proclaim that he would not associate himself with such a person, not when he—</p><p>But everything was now replaced with absolute dread. The letter in the inner pocket of his jacket burned against his chest, along with his thudding heart.

</p><p>
  <em>My dearest love—</em>
</p><p>There was no way Tony meant those words.</p><p>He tried to remember that Tony was no longer ‘Tony’ anymore, but try as he might, he could not forget the man he had fallen in love with over the summer.</p><p>Bucky had teased him about it, capturing the eye of a lord of all things like those silly romance novels that were becoming ever-so popular. Right until Steve confessed that he had no idea that Tony was a lord and it all came to a horrible, embarrassing end. Bucky wanted to find Tony and knock some sense into him, but Steve convinced him it wasn’t worth the trouble. So, Bucky yelled and kicked some sense into him. Except Steve was still stubborn as any farm mule.</p><p>He refused to apologize. Tony should have been honest with who he was. He shouldn’t have led him on like he did. He could have gotten Steve fired! He could have caused a scandal that would have made it impossible for Steve to live! Finding work that wouldn’t kill him was hard enough! Working in the factory, hot, sweaty, and cramped, was a torture. Bucky insisted that they could find something else for him, something easier on his lungs, but they needed the income.</p><p>Then he got the letter.</p><p>
  <em>My dearest love—</em>
</p><p>Steve tore off his cap and ran his hands through his hair, groaning.</p><p>He read the words over and over again, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe a single one of them. The things he had said! And how he practically abandoned his post! Who in their right mind would love a mouthy, disrespectful Irishman living in the slums of the East End when they could have their pick of the most fashionable and richest ladies and lords? Weren’t the rich only supposed to mingle and marry into other rich families? Wouldn’t someone put up a fuss? Wouldn’t Tony face all sorts of consequences just by being <em>friendly </em>towards Steve?</p><p>He did not think this through at all, but that letter …</p><p>Taking in a deep breath, he shoved the doors open.</p><p>Before him was a large room brimming with chaos.</p><p>The floors and walls had stains from grease and what looked to be burns. One wall had some sort of metal grate system holding tools of all kinds: saws, hammers, wrenches. Multiple tables took up a majority of the place, strewn about at different angles and distances from one another. There was hardly an empty surface: books of different sizes and thicknesses were in haphazard stacks, tools and discarded work gloves were in messy piles, clamps and hammers hung off of edges, there were mountains of unlabeled containers holding only God knew what, and …</p><p>“What the hell is that?” Steve exclaimed.</p><p>Tony looked up from his current project: two pieces of metal being melted together by something capable of keeping a steady flame lit. Steve had never seen anything like it. It was like a giant can with a candle sticking out of the end of a hose. More importantly, Tony was lifting the metal plate that was protecting his face. He was sweating, his face flushed from exertion and heat, but his eyes were bright and alert. He looked handsome and alive and—</p><p>The strange contraption was suddenly turned off, instantly cooling the room a few degrees and leaving silence in its wake.</p><p>The opened doors and windows in the back of the room helped.</p><p>“Steve?”</p><p>The safety equipment Tony was wearing was quickly stripped off and before Steve could blink, Tony was rushing over like nothing had happened.</p><p>Steve held up his hands and took a step back, making Tony stop dead in his tracks.</p><p>“I got your letter,” he said, hoping his voice betrayed no emotions.</p><p>Tony smiled brilliantly as if he were <em>hoping</em>. “And?”</p><p>“Are you crazy? You—you can’t just say those things! H-How could you!”</p><p>Tony’s whole demeanor changed: his shoulders slumped; he looked down at the floor as he picked up a rag from a nearby table and started wiping his hands.</p><p>Steve’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. What would Tony say next?</p><p>“<em>Is eol duit méid mo ghrá duit</em>.”</p><p>Steve nearly choked.</p><p>
  <em>You know how I love you.</em>
</p><p>That was not something Steve had taught him back on the estate, back when—That meant Tony studied Gaeilge on his own time. He learned enough to say that. Knowing Tony and how much he enjoyed learning, how easily all manners of subjects came to him, he knew more than that.</p><p>“Do I need to make a bouquet?” Tony asked quietly. “And attach the meanings of every flower to it? Do I need to shout it from the tops of the Tower? I could write odes about you. How much I love how fierce you are? How even though you look like a breeze can break you, nothing actually does? How perfectly you fit in my arms, how much I love that you end up holding me when we wake up? How much your beauty surpasses even the most loveliest of beings from classical paintings and sculptures? How little I care for those buxom beauties or proportionally perfect fabrications?”</p><p>Steve’s hands shook. He just couldn’t comprehend … he just couldn’t and his tongue was stumbling over itself, trying to figure out how he wanted to say something in English when it wanted to come out in Gaeilge. A part of him had hoped he meant every word of that letter, every syllable of waxed poetry and longing and devotion. The promises of fidelity and assurances of sincerity, of how if they could just meet and talk, all would be well.</p><p>Hearing this, as if he didn't care about how skinny he was or that he could more easily catch black lung than the average person who had, oh, he didn’t know, consistent access to clean water, decent food, and medical care …</p><p>He didn’t know what to do.</p><p>Of course, Tony had said such things before, but that was when—before—</p><p>Tony’s hands were suddenly cradling his face, wiping away unexpected tears.</p><p>Steve shook his head and used the sleeve of his coat to wipe his eyes. It had seen worse.</p><p>“You—you cannot think it will go well,” he choked, his mouth deciding to forego English altogether. “There is …”</p><p>“What?” Tony interrupted, also speaking Gaeilge. “Why not? Is it because of class? Our social standings? You know money means no matter to me. Did you read my letter?”</p><p>“A dozen times!”</p><p>“And? I meant every word!”</p><p>Steve took in a shuttering breath.</p><p>He could not believe that this was his life: standing in a grand house in Mayfair—</p><p>His mind skittered to a stop.</p><p>No. No, he wasn’t in some grand house in Mayfair, one of the richest well-to-do neighborhoods in all of London. He was standing in the laboratory Tony had told him about, the place he loved best (besides being next to Steve, but that was beside the point). The place he wanted to take him to, to show off his inventions and research and discoveries. He was standing before Tony who was not dressed up in fine silks and velvets, a cravat up to his chin. This was Tony in a loose shirt and pants tucked into thick work boots and covered in soot and grease.</p><p>Even after their argument, even after Steve left the estate, Tony took the time to <em>write</em> to him and was all but going to sweep him up into his arms when he arrived.</p><p>Bucky said he was stubborn. Was he—?</p><p>Steve reached up and wiped at an errant spot on Tony’s cheek, where something got smudged.</p><p>He was a skinny, mouthy Irishman from the worst slums of the city. Tony was the heir to a title and thousands of pounds. Somehow, they still met, even though they both had tempers and loud opinions and could be very, very stupid. This likely wouldn’t be the last fight they would have and it might take a number of years for Steve to get over his own insecurities. Hell, it would take Tony years to get over his own, because being a lord was no easy task either and he just inherited it not too long ago either.</p><p>But on that summer estate, before Steve learned some facts about Tony …</p><p>Tony was the brilliant handyman who knew everything about science and mechanics, chemistry and physics. Steve was the temporary gardener who knew how to work the land and knew a thing or two about art thanks to the local parish allowing churchgoers access to their library. They shared a sense of humor, a fascination for the world around them, and the possibilities it held. They agreed on many topics regarding equality and reform.</p><p>The time he spent with Tony, day and night, were some of his fondest memories.</p><p>Hopefully it wouldn’t take them this long to cool down after a fight. God, he wasted so much time being bitter and just as narrow-minded as the lord and ladies who stared at him when he initially knocked on the front door not even fifteen minutes ago.</p><p>When he learned about all this, Bucky was going to tease them for <em>months</em>.</p><p>Maybe Steve would reconsider inviting him to the wedding.</p><p>“Can you ask me again?” he asked, finally managing English.</p><p>Tony might have known the words, and said them correctly, but his accent was horrible.</p><p>A smile broke out over Tony’s face and his eyes shone brightly. He swung Steve up into his arms, practically off his feet, and kissed him. Steve pressed his body to Tony’s, barely holding back a moan, as Tony held onto him close. He pulled away, needing air.</p><p>“T-That’s not—!”</p><p>“Marry me,” Tony said. “Forget about money and titles and what the gossipmongers will say and just marry me.”</p><p>Those were the same words in the letter, but hearing Tony say them was so much better.</p><p>“Then get me to a chapel already.”</p><p>Tony kissed him again.</p><p>Jarvis left the tea tray outside of the workshop about an hour later. When they thought of it, or needed it, it would hopefully still be hot.</p><p>(It wasn’t.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fun fact: the tool Tony had was a blowtorch. The story takes place approximately 1795, when the Regency Era was just starting, but blowtorches as we know them wouldn’t be invented until about 1799, and even then, nothing like what was to be invented later in the 1880s. Tony was amazingly ahead of his time! Same with the protective gear!</p><p>I couldn’t really use the Irish/Gaeilge as much as I wanted to in this fanfic, but given the time period, Steve having to remember to speak English and slipping into it when he’s emotional or doesn’t want other people to know what he’s saying is probably accurate of real people’s experiences. I think he would hold onto it despite trying to assimilate. It’s a stark difference from one branch of my own family, who stopped speaking German completely, “because we’re in America now” as my grandfather’s grandfather was to have said circa 1905.</p><p>Thank you so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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